


Blue

by Nyx Midnight (nyxmidnight)



Series: Red and Blue [2]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Anal Play, Devil May Cry 3, M/M, Missing Scene, Mission 7, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyxmidnight/pseuds/Nyx%20Midnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Devil May Cry 3] Vergil didn't get enough in Red.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue

The nearly fixed expression of his face once more did not change, but the piercing, devilish cry that rocked the upper storeys of the Temen-Ni-Gru brought him both great excitement and great envy. Great excitement, for it would be such a pleasure to crush the son of Sparda with his own hands later; and great envy, for another boy, a child, was reborn with even more power than before, and he… he was still just a miserable, pathetic human. His jaw clenched slightly and a tiny crease appeared between his bare eyebrows.

“Arkham.”

He raised his head at the call of his name, and realised he had fallen behind. Vergil had stopped several feet ahead of him, his back to him, head slightly turned to the side, not enough to reveal his eyes, but Arkham knew that somehow, Vergil could tell where he was. As he walked towards Vergil, he noticed the sudden, stretching silence of the tower. Hm. Perhaps this had been the last great burst of energy before extinction for Dante. When he stopped at Vergil’s side, though, he did not voice his thoughts, but merely looked at him.

Vergil’s gaze immediately caught his. The icy blue eyes were still dark and feverish from Vergil’s encounter with Dante. Of course. It had been too short, not nearly enough for a half-devil like Vergil. That’s why he had called out to him. One word, his name, short and sharp like an order. He bowed his head slightly, and Vergil walked away, opening a massive gilded door decorated with delicately chiselled lovely angels trying vainly to escape the devils dragging them to Hell by the hair, wings and clothes, the cries of their mouths gaping in silent agony never reaching the heavens.

Arkham followed, closing the door behind himself, following Vergil in the odd ritual they had established over the months spent together researching the Temen-Ni-Gru, learning its secrets, discovering how to revive it and restore it to its former glory. As he expected, Vergil walked straight to the big throne-like chair near the far wall of the narrow room. It was strange to have such a rich, royal thing in this humble library that smelled good of old scrolls and books. It had been there when they had found this room; neither of them had found out its real purpose, but Vergil had soon enough given it one.

He was standing before the big chair now, his back turned to Arkham, but the scene was so familiar to Arkham that he didn’t needed to see to know. First he would rest his katana against the left arm of the throne; then, he would step out of his long boots and set them aside on the right side of the chair, before undoing the fly of whatever pants he happened to be wearing that day and swiftly stepping out of them, folding them neatly and draping them over the right arm of the throne. Only then would he turn around to face Arkham, without shame or hesitation, sit in the throne, and wait for Arkham to approach.

And Vergil did all of this, as usual, and as usual, Arkham walked in closer and knelt before Vergil. Looking aside for a moment, he grasped the handle of Vergil’s katana and slowly brought it to himself, then looked up at Vergil again. Already, in accordance to their routine, Vergil was leaning back in the chair, left leg over the arm of the gilded throne, a hand on his crotch to caress himself and expose his entrance at the same time. And yet, despite the obscene display, Arkham could feel Vergil’s gaze burning a hole through him, his guard still up. Attempting to strike Vergil, even in this moment, would have been foolish at best.

So he proceeded as usual, pressing the tip of the hilt against Vergil’s entrance. Vergil has always made him use his sword to please him; his body was his brother’s to hurt and caress. No lubricant, either: Vergil liked the feel of the cold metal against his heated skin, and he needed it to hurt at first to really feel it, to draw pleasure from it. It did, however, made the initial penetration difficult, and despite Vergil relaxing as much as he could while his right hand man tried to fuck him with his own sword, it took a few twists and jerks before the hilt finally entered him, ripping a half-pleased half-pained groan from him. Of course, he did not bleed, or if he did, only briefly, a few drops at most. Arkham pushed the hilt all the way in, then pulled it out almost all the way, and repeated the deep thrusts again and again, quickly gaining speed as Vergil shot a hand back and braced himself on the backrest of the massive throne.

Arkham watched Vergil writhe wantonly on the chair, fascinated, though his expression gave nothing of it away. Before him, Vergil was the very image of his desires, with his power, his youth, his beauty, and his body’s cravings, far from frightening him, was only making yearn for dark powers more. When he, too, would become a devil, he would have all the powers necessary to acquire everything he ever yearned for. From the simplest of things to the most unimaginable one.

His thoughts must have been showing on his face, for once, because Vergil growled sharply, dragging his attention back to the task at hand. Arkham’s expression went back to his mask of impassiveness and he gave the sword’s hilt a twist as he plunged it deep into Vergil again.

Vergil’s body wound up slightly and his legs shivered as he let out a strangled cry. When Arkham repeated the movement one more time, he arched his back and came over his stomach, the shudders of his body making him give a strong kick to the throne’s base that pulverized a falling cherub’s head, and the name of his brother escaped his lips in a faint whisper that Arkham barely heard.

Arkham drew the sword out of Vergil as soon as the strong tremors of his orgasm subsided, then he stepped back, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe the hilt clean. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Vergil stand and dress again, like he had done nothing out of the ordinary—nothing out of _their_ ordinary anyway—and stood, his slightly scowling, thoughtful expression back. The first time Vergil held out his hand, as usual, Arkham handed him the handkerchief so he could clean himself; the second time, he handed him his katana back, handle first.

Vergil took it by the scabbard and looked at it briefly, just long enough to make sure it was clean. Then, barely sparing Arkham a glance, he headed for the door, as usual, heading out for more studies, more work. What he had done was only for the release of his body, it never mattered. And Arkham followed.

As he left the room, though, his hands briefly brushed the arms of one of the great engraved devils on the door, his favourite, the gigantic one dragging fistfuls of angels into Hell.

Old habits were about to change.


End file.
